January
by Estoma
Summary: Three times Peeta and Cato celebrate the new year.


**Author's note: For Zoey, for the New Year's Exchange.**

_i. _

The muddy Yarra is alight with the right kind of fire. Twenty kilometres north of the city, bushfires threaten and roar, but that does not stop the fireworks over Federation Square. Once a year, the choked old Yarra is beautiful; it is reflecting red, blue, purple, and silver. The lights above and the glowing river meld together. And the bells of St Pauls and Mt Michaels ring out a reply to the echoing fireworks. The brassy clatter of the trams is drowned out. Still, they ring their bells, nudging through the foot traffic by Flinders' Street Station. And Peeta wanders through it all in a daze. He lets the current of the crowd carry him across the sloping square. He is half drunk on the shitty beer they are selling on tap, but it is the noise, the colour, the sheer press of people that has him reeling. Staggering, he has a smile on his face.

In the Melbourne night, Peeta follows the path down to the Yarra. The crowd thins. Most are off in search of the clubs on Collins and Swanston Street – rooftop bars where the breeze is cool. So Peeta watches the river darken again and he thinks that the reflected colours there were more real than the fireworks. In the night sky, drifting grey smoke looks more like ghosts than clouds. And because it's dark, because he's had a few pints of VB, but mostly because he's looking up at the smoke-ghosts, Peeta trips. But the air is soft and warm, the river quiet, and it is the right kind of night. Someone catches him before he can feel. He feels a hard chest, smells the good, warm scent of beer and sweat. It is the most natural thing to stretch up and kiss a stubbled cheek.

"You right there, mate?" There is laughter, a head shaken, but it is meant kindly. "Reckon we better get you a taxi home."

_ii. _

"You ready to go home yet?"

"Mind if we stay a bit longer?"

Their voices are soft as the turf beneath them. It is littered with frangipani flowers. The blooms are crushed and wilting in the heat, but it brings their scent out to perfume the night. It smells sweet, and it is. Peeta lies beside Cato, not touching, but they do not need to. All day Cairns baked in the sun. As midnight hit the crowds stood sweaty and smiling. But now as the moon rides high where the fireworks were, the night is soft and gentle. Even the mudflats look beautiful as the moon makes silver ribbons of the channels. They are together, wrapped up in the cooling night, and neither can think of a better way to begin a new year. Cato reaches over to trail his hand over Peeta's jaw. He tilts his face up for a kiss.

_iii. _

Called Devil's Gate, the gorge has the kind of wild beauty that makes the name fitting. It was a half-hour drive down twisting switchbacks, Cato's knuckles white on the steering wheel. He made sure to smile for Peeta as he fought the pull of the crumbling edge. Now they are at the bottom of the gorge. Driving down, the trees looked impenetrable. They opened to take the old four-wheel drive, and closed tight behind. It is easy to forget that twenty kilometres away there is a road. Tomorrow, Fallon is going to bring down the kayak paddles they forgot in the hurry to leave, but Cato hopes he will not stay long.

It is cold enough to have a fire, and the little clearing is filled with the sharp, clean scent of burning gum leaves. Cato breathes it in, but Peeta is restless. He stands there, looking out to the wide swell of the river. It is black, now, but the current is so slow and the water looks soft in the night. Cato smiles and likes the way Peeta's shorts have dipped low at his hips.

When midnight ticks over they take turns swigging Jack Daniels from the bottle. There are no fireworks, but that does not matter. Peeta chokes, his eyes watering, and Cato laughs a little. He likes the burn down his throat. They drink while the river gurgles softly and the leaves rustle in the dark. Then, Peeta starts to undress. Pale skin and freckles, he shivers in the Tasmanian summer, but soon he is standing in just his thongs.

"You'll fucking freeze," Cato says.

"Are you coming."

"If you'll help me get my clothes off."


End file.
